


I See No God Up Here

by cosmotronic



Series: Abraxo [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Dark, Gen, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Romance, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 13:39:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9551432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmotronic/pseuds/cosmotronic
Summary: Saw deception and waste and all of her dead. Saw nothing of miracles.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Minor **warnings** for mentions of suicide, unhealthy sexual dynamics (brief, no real detail) and a generally dark and depressive theme (hey, it's Fallout).
> 
> Comments and feedback always welcome.

Came out of the Vault, rode the elevator up from one circle to the next. Higher, but still a division of hell; failed to drag herself entirely from the pit. Dread in her belly throughout the ascent, fear. It was not nearly bright enough and, at the same time, the greys blinded and deafened and dampened her senses.

Looked about, she should have been stunned and choked with emotion but she was dead. Must have died, because no-one could have looked upon this and not been reduced to ash. Saw her husband was dead, her loved ones were scattered to atoms, the world struck midnight and she knew mankind had become death.

Started to walk, walked so long and so far, up and down and here and there across the outline of before. Wore a suit of blue that earned her questions she couldn't answer, attracted looks when she wanted to be quiet and shrouded her invisible when she wanted to be heard.

Learned to survive in a different form. Buried the suit and found a gun that earned her fear, a dog that earned her respect. Learned to shoot and maim and kill and look for order in the blood slowly dripping down concrete walls, look for purpose in the static of her radio. Lived for currency counted in crimped metallic trash, cast off and collected.

Tried to put the gun in her mouth, once, tried to swallow the brass. No brilliant, bright light at the end; only the dull click of a misfire. Threw away the weapon and screamed and raged and bit her lip, swallowed the copper instead.

Everyone from before only mute, dumb bones, but there were others who breathed and shared her space.

Met the Minutemen in dusty, musty history. They thought they were looking for a miracle but they were looking in the wrong place. Or they had the right of it, that the only way miracles could be found is by scrabbling in the dirt of the past.

Had a miracle, once. A miracle thrust upon her, unforeseen but not unloved, loved from the moment he first saw the world and screamed and bawled at what he saw.

The Brotherhood didn't believe in miracles. They believed in machine-wrought chains and doctrine to stamp across the wasteland under power boots and rains of bullets. Looked down from their floating fortress at the ants. Not welcome up there, stole a rifle because she could and ran.

Others surrounded her, one after one after one. A woman who spun words. A tin man who acted out his heart. A robot who saw the world in colours far too clean and pure. A giant of green who searched for kindness and she didn't tell him it was all used up. A man at the bottom of life.

Let the man move between her legs and made sure he pulled out. Thought she had absorbed too much radiation for there to be another miracle, but the idea sickened her still and the risk was too great. Moved on after a while, left him in drink and squalor, told him to wait and didn't look back.

Wandered in the desert for days and nights, found an oasis that glowed and sat until the click click became her entire world. Snarled and smashed the radiation medicine into her cowardly veins and left. Wandered for a time in the jungle of the city.

Found the firecracker, a fighter with red hair who saw the same shades she did, black and white and red with rage.

Let the redhead eat her out, but didn't reciprocate, just lay there afterwards and listened to the sound of regret getting herself off quietly in the corner. Never spoke of it until the next night, tangled grimy fingers in red hair and pushed down again.

Gave the fighter chemicals because she was more useful that way and far less tender. One day she didn't, instead sat and stood and watched for days, weeks until the screaming had stopped and the green eyes were clear. Carried on as though nothing had happened, told her to follow and didn't look back.

Looked for her miracle, not with hope in her eyes but with an acceptance born of fury.

The Railroad survived on hope, on giving hope to empty shells. They saw the light at the end, she saw only endlessly long and twisting tunnels. Helped them anyway, because if she dug far enough and deep enough she might have uncovered the past, brushed the dirt from her soul.

Found her miracle. The Institute ignored the decrepit wasteland in favour of science and power brewed in a test-tube, born of will. Her miracle tried to remake man in his own image, but it was realised only in twisted and poor clay form. Welcome down there, and until that moment she could not imagine there was a circle lower than his fraud.

Watched the end of all things, another dead. Pushed a button, one last concession to this world, picked up her gun and walked away.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little experiment in harshness.
> 
> Might be more on the way. No, I don't really do sequels. But still, I like this survivor.
> 
> Title from that Yuri Gagarin quote (although he was referring to space and not, you know, post-apocalyptic videogame wastelands). Because I was listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=boa96c7uOSM) while I dreamt up this little thing.


End file.
